


lost and found at sea

by gael_itarille



Category: Assassination Classroom
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Love Confessions, Paris (City), Post-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Roommates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-05
Updated: 2019-11-16
Packaged: 2020-11-23 03:36:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20885480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gael_itarille/pseuds/gael_itarille
Summary: He didn't know when he started developing feelings for her. He supposed he just did.





	1. shipwrecked

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first part to a small fic I had in mind. I've definitely been posting more Irina and Karasuma fics- but they're a joy to write about.
> 
> Enjoy! xx

He didn't know when he started developing feelings for her. He supposed he just did. Perhaps it came to him on a morning when he awoke to soft humming and the smell of palacinke wafting through the gap in the door. He left the room to find her exactly the way he imagined- hair tied up in a high ponytail; natural makeup already done; an apron around her slim waist. Maybe it was the way she was moving her hips, or maybe it was just her. Maybe it was her plump lips or her silky hair or her pellucid blue eyes. But its not. It's only Irina. Karasuma was a simple man. A soft "good morning, darling" leaves her lips- when she's too tired to be flirty or obnoxiously vixen-like- and he finds himself smiling lightly, lips pulled upwards by some unknown force. But she loves him- it's that simple. Yet, he doesn't love her back -and she knows and she understands, and for some reason that makes him slightly...sorrowful- but there's something there. It's complicated, he feels. He has absolutely no idea what they are, what they will be. But he cares, and that's easy enough to comprehend. Karasuma likes the simple things.

This won't work out. It never will. It interferes with his employment more than he wants to admit- but suddenly there's an official at his office asking to speak to him, and he's completely overtaken with rigidity. He's carried less professionalism under Jelavić's influence, but he scrambles frantically to gather it from parts of himself that she's worn away. The man tells him that she's a hindrance- a beacon for special treatment and bias. However, what does he know?

Too much.

He still doesn't love her back. It's been months now, 5 exactly, since they've started- since _he's_ started regarding her in a more intimate way. But it's not enough. Irina's pain is clear enough to feel, to taste in the air- for she says "I love you" every _bloody_ night and is gifted with silence in return. She's fed up with it now. He attempts to stop guilt wash over him in waves- sitting on the bed's edge with fists clenched and jaw tense, fingernails carving grooves into sweaty palms and shaking hands. His...roommate says nothing. Anything she's thinking is hidden- the skills from her past baring their fangs, protecting the _true_ Irina- the Irina that he knows. And maybe it hurts, because _god_\- it's not supposed to! Romance is not part of the job, and Tadaomi is always working. Feelings have no place in the Ministry- and perhaps she has no place in his heart. There is always a lurking possibility of death; a hidden trick to life; a fault line in security. She was too soft for her previous line of work, and now she's rubbed off on him. All of his actions are illogical, inexplicable, for he finds himself wondering whether she'd like that brand of Cup Noodles and pondering if she minds the new welcome mat he purchased yesterday. It's best if she's gone. It's best if she leaves because then he'll harden up again- walls reconstructed stronger; thicker; taller. Irina will be gone- her room cleared out and bathroom vanity empty. Whatever traces of her presence will be removed, and finally, _finally_, Karasuma will revert back to his old self; his right self. 

He asks her to leave immediately. She doesn't even look at him.

Irina packs a bag of essentials- taking only what she needs, leaving the rest of her things in this _mess_, and she hopes that will hurt him more. It better. 

She doesn't say goodbye. He doesn't either. She only steps out the door- flinging the keys at his retreating figure with deadly accuracy- and slams it shut. 

Yet her heart aches, and against the screaming and yelling and thrashing of her mind, she knocks on the door for what she hopes will be the last time. 

It's 12:06 AM when he hears the final knock, seconds after she's stormed out of their- _his_ home. Judgement is thrown to the wind, and he's so attached -even though he promised himself that he wouldn't- that he barely manages to walk instead of run to the door. He opens it, and is greeted by her blue eyes again. But they're frigid- ice cold water poured over his head without warning. She doesn't yell.

"Clean it up yourself."

And then it's he who slams the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please, tell me what you thought in the comments!


	2. stranded

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second part to this fic- I'm still debating whether to end the fic in angst or fluff, but I have a few ideas.
> 
> Enjoy! xx

_"Clean it up yourself."_

It's 01:12 AM when he finds it in himself to look into her room, intent on throwing away what she left behind. He doesn't. He doesn't because he can't stand more than a second in there without regret dragging him into an abyss. 

She gets a boarding pass to Paris only an hour after she wraps up her dignity. The plane ticket feels heavy in her hands, arms almost dragged down to the ground. She functions though, because she's much too strong to let a _square_ like him get to her. But she left. She left and now she's homeless, awash and adrift in a sea nothing promising. It hits her like the wall she almost walks into. She's unemployed. And there's probably a bounty on her head from her previous hits and millions of people who may or may not try to kill her while she's not protected by the Ministry. 

Oh.

God.

Irina is not 12. But she is terrified again. 

She's been away for a week, and Tadaomi can feel his shell toughening. He lets his hope flicker, because maybe, maybe this will work; he'll erase the impact she's had on him and in time, he'll forget she ever existed. Work brings the agent back into reality- stiff suits and paperwork shoved into briefcases. Yes, that's it- his plan will be successful and Irina will be a mere figment of his imagination. He'll live, and the woman will slip his mind entirely.

But he never forgets.

For the moment he comes home, all of his progress comes crashing down, and he's back where he started. He'll never forget how their lips almost touched and how her laughter was intoxicating and how her voice floated dreamily from the shower when she thought he wasn't paying attention. 

He knows why he asked her to leave. But being sensitive is better than being alone, and Karasuma hates the crushing disappointment he feels when she doesn't materialize at his door.

He's too soft, and she was too. Yet, that allowed him to feel..._something_ for her. Being soft is a hindrance in the field, although this isn't the field. This is life. He should've realized the difference earlier. 

The concierge hands over the room key, Irina's polish nails tapping a rhythm on the granite countertop. She's back in high society- gaining admission onto yachts with a glance and upgrading into First Class on every flight. Using her skills- the ones meant to seduce, assassinate- felt good. She had never changed, really. She simply put a mask over herself; perhaps she was waiting until she could leave.

Because it's easier to pretend you don't care- even when despondence taunts you in the back of your mind. So Irina does just that- every morning, and every night. She tries those Cup Noodles he seems to like so much, and they're absolutely horrendous. Another reason to despise him. He's dirt under her feet, the saliva in her mouth. He's nothing. 

She toys with a man that night- a rich patron, one who spends too much on gambling and is so drunk he can't read the cards in his palm. Jelavić seduces him easily- the alcohol leaving a faint buzz on her lips. She does everything that Tadaomi would never be attracted to. The torso of her dress is a weak excuse for a bustier, and the ploy is effective, just as planned. All eyes follow her steps and the folds of her gown- enraptured and attention occupied. It more than compensates for the lack of attention from Karasuma.

Right?

The man beds her that night- breath putrid and room a pigsty. Irina feels nothing- neither pleasure nor pain. It's invasive. It's useless. She doesn't sense love, nor appreciation, though years ago she could have spit on those words. Despite her desperate attempts to clear Tadaomi from her mind, she's frighteningly invested- and she wishes she was with him. She shouldn't. Still, she does. And she realizes.

He can't be replaced. But she can. She'll be replaced by some younger, prettier woman, and they'll have some not-love romance, and someday, he'll love her- the way he never felt for Irina. Hours later, when the man's fantasies are over and Jelavić's disgust threatens to spew bile in her mouth, she leaves. She finally reaches her suite- hair dishevelled and lipstick smudged. The former assassin slams the door. And collapses in tears right after. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please, tell me what you thought in the comments!


	3. adrift

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The third part to this fic! I may really like writing for this couple! The plot for this chapter was inspired by Gwendee- a lovely author, whose works you should definitely lend your time to. 
> 
> Enjoy! xx

Sonokawa knows that it's hard to read her boss. He's practically a stone- blank-faced for a substantial amount of time she's worked under him. There are rare occasions when his facade slips- happiness showing through in the faintest of smiles or anger in the clenches of a fist. But other than those snippets of whatever beast is his feelings- she sees nothing. So when she sends him an email- one she shouldn't have but he'll care about it, she thinks- she expects it when he stands and walks calmly to the door without his expression betraying his thoughts. 

When he starts _running_ down the stairs, frantic to get to _her_, Sonokawa is shellshocked.

There's a bounty on her head- of _bloody_ course. Because it's obvious, isn't it- that the Ministry would put millions into having her exterminated once she leaves. Karasuma lets a string of expletives leave his lips- pushing the door of the exit with barely less than enough force to break it off its hinges. It groans, the rocks on the adjacent wall screeching as the paint scratches off the wood. Tadaomi doesn't know what he's feeling- he never does, _god, _and that's why he failed her- but he's aware of the anger turning his heart black and the fear swirling in his stomach.

Irina isn't surprised at all when Lovro calls her -a private number, of course- at 2 AM. She can guess what he'll tell her. And she's right- because her head is worth money now, and isn't that _absolutely_ flattering? She dials Grip's phone first- fingers calm, eyes portraying the most serene of emotions. When he doesn't pick up, she's fine. Calm, cool, collected. She types Gastro's number into her phone next- waiting as the rings pass by and end. 

Right.

It's fine. It's fine. When Smog doesn't answer his phone, Irina feels her fingers tremble imperceptibly. Soon, they begin to shake violently, for Red-Eye gives her nothing but radio silence, and she's forced to remember a name she so badly wanted to expel from her mind- barely able to dial a number she's memorized long ago.

It sends her straight to Karasuma's voicemail. 

-

Karasuma sees the notification at 10:26 AM. 

She's called.

He tracks the number- and she's exactly where he thought she'd be. He doesn't call her back. He doesn't know how to apologize, and he doesn't know what he'll say. He's an esteemed corporate agent- one of the highest-ranking officers and one of the Ministry's best. He's memorized countless procedures and learned three languages. He can spot any assassination technique from miles away. But when it comes to her- he knows nothing. 

-

The plane ride to Paris is twelve hours- twelve hours wasted on a metal contraption that won't get him anywhere if she's already-

_No_. 

She's not, and he doesn't want to even recognize that possibility- because, for the first time in this convoluted long game he plays with her, he knows what he'll do.

Nothing.

He'll be a lifeless, vacuous shell- a corporate machine- because even though her vociferous whining, she filled him with something he couldn't discover on his own. He misses her. He does. She soothed his worries, provided him with oddly amusing conversations in the middle of the night, gave him some foreign sense of elation without subterfuge. 

It's bloody ironic. 

He knows what to say, what to do- exactly when she's left and across the ocean and into some city of love- but to _hell_ with love because that's the whole reason they're in this blasted mess- _love_. 

She told him he made her smile- fully sober but somehow drunk on the sunset and the sound of the cars whooshing by underneath them. He said nothing. He should've said she did the exact same thing. Tadaomi should have gone on that rollercoaster with her- should have eaten that cotton candy she waved obnoxiously in his face. He would've been better off taking her to that new French restaurant than staying in. They were at a bar one night- Irina getting catcalls left and right- and him seconds away from crushing the glass of whiskey in his hand. He thought she thrived on that type of attention. So he left. She came back to their apartment with a fresh bruise on her wrist.

He should've stayed. 

He should have stayed, dammit- because what point is it to live with someone if you abandon them in bars and leave them in silence on bridges. It's not logical. He's not logical. 

She wasn't either.

But she was beautiful.

Out of sight and out of mind- isn't that how the expression goes? But she isn't out of his mind- even though he's dug himself into this pit of caring for her, and he doesn't even regret it. The hole he made was so deep, it brought him to the other side of the world. It was refreshing- the neon signs of Tokyo lighting up her hair and reflecting off her eyes. She was heels splashing through puddles of rain, pricey polaroid cameras that took pictures of him -happy somehow, happy with _Irina_\- and fancy dresses that occupied too much room. He was gruff, stiff- and that's not even near good enough for her. She has merit, and she wanted him. She deserved what her childhood took away from her- fairytales and princes and teenage romance; something he thought so insignificant until he actually became invested. Maybe she won't care for him at all when he finds her- and that fills him with a sudden sinking feeling- like concrete pumped into his lungs. But he'll try to reach her anyway because what's the point of being..._together _if he didn't put in effort? So Karasuma drowns out the guilt stabbing at him- taking out his computer quickly.

There are twelve hours left on this damn plane. He finds her exact location in one. There are eleven hours left; 660 minutes to plan a course of action. He does it in sixty. There are ten hours left. He sits and waits- staring out the window until Japan's night sky bleeds into a sunset of vibrant hues. He turns back to his computer, pulling out paperwork and a pen. Sorrow won't get him anywhere, but he'll make sure this plane gets him to her. 

-

"Hey folks, we've now landed in Paris- the city of love. It is 7:29 AM Parisian time, and the weather is fairly sunny..."

The city of love. And suddenly panic pounds in his ears because they're in the city of love and there's a possibility that he loves her too. 

It takes him nine minutes to get through the aisles and into the airport.

It was supposed to only take four. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading and sticking with this fic! Please, tell me what you thought in the comments!


	4. rescued

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made it longer again? It's now five chapters, since I didn't want to rush an upcoming scene I have planned. Thank you all for continuing to stick with this story- I truly appreciate it.
> 
> Enjoy! xx

The apartment is silent. 

Irina is simply drawing- a blue whiteboard erase marker sketching a map of Paris on her bathroom mirror. She doesn't google a floor plan or a blueprint; what she's written is an exact - enhanced, even- copy of the city's layout. The marker doesn't squeak against the glass, just marking steady lines and sewage tunnels and safehouses. In red, Jelavíc labels the location of her storage lockers; a route to the Seine- a crimson line juxtaposed against various winding paths in green, purple, yellow and black. Capping the pen, the assassin lets her eyes absorb the information in front of her. Within minutes, its memorized. A spray bottle of rubbing alcohol sits on the granite countertop, and she barely has time to spritz the mirror before a knock sounds at her penthouse door. 

Noisily -because no one should know she's trained- she ambles to the door, a soft "coming" leaving her lips with practiced casualty. Soundlessly now, she slips her gun out of the holster on her thigh. Holding it close to her leg, she unlatches the deadbolt. Her heart pounds just a bit faster- because if there's a killer behind the wood plank, she has less than a second to take him down. Time seems to forgo humouring her, its pace quickening. The beginning of a flirtatious smile begins to creep onto her glossed lips. The door is barely open before the barrel of the gun is straight between the visitor's eyes.

Red Eye only says, "Hey, beautiful," and stares her down. 

Irina cocks her brow, and smiles.

Five minutes later, he's raiding her minibar. Those M&M's are going to rob her of ten bucks. But she lets him tear the bag open anyways, grabbing two glasses of San Pellegrino with a _clink _and a huff of amusement. Soon, colourful candies are submerged in bubbly water- ultramarine dying the contents of her glass. It doesn't matter though. She's sneaked two caramels into the middle of his burger, wrapper and all. He'll notice before he takes a bite -that 20/20 vision irks her to no end- but she has fun squeezing a pack of ketchup into his scarf while he watches_ Mean Girls_. He retaliates by leaving mustard in the toe of her Chanel heels- and Irina, despite the shoes’ ludicrous pricing, can’t help but laugh like a schoolgirl. It’s just past nine when he arrives, though it’s eleven when they’ve started their second rom-com. She shouts a bit, cries a bit- laughs a _lot, _and by midnight they're lathered in face masks and beauty oils. Her friend teases her relentlessly- messing with her nail polish to create some odd concoction in a cup that's _sure_ to explode if she lit a match- but she doesn't worry. He'll buy her something better tomorrow. As the stars continue twinkling above, the girl finds that she’s happy. Maybe she’s not happy in the way she would be if she was with Karasuma- but that’s a matter for another time.   
  
-

She’s staying at the Ritz, but he doesn’t pick her up there. The airport is hectic- crowds of people pushing over each other to buy overpriced beverages and duty-free whiskey. It's annoying. His line of sight is obstructed and the chatter makes the _click_ of a gun's safety undetectable. He can barely hear himself over the foreign language running through his ears.

Parisians. 

Though he's spent enough time observing Irina to know that the woman in the black blazer - middle-aged, mid-length brown hair and mauve lipstick (Guerlain #440 if he had to guess)- is speaking to her mother about her day at the bank. A man- seven o'clock and two metres away from him- is discussing a new Spring/Summer collection by a famous designer. Karasuma bets he's chatting about Saint Laurent. He knows more than he should in this situation- identifying haute couture and lavish handbags- and he understands why Irina adores languages. Perpetual clarity. One could know almost everything. But he can't make out what that security officer is saying into his radio and thinks, for possibly the seventeenth time, that Irina would be more useful in this situation. 

He sighs inaudibly. There's a hotel room waiting for him, and no matter his strength, Tadaomi needs sleep to function well. 

It's quite possible that's simply an excuse to avoid her. 

The water hits his back cold- and Tadaomi makes no move to turn up the temperature. It's refreshing almost, and he barely recoils at the touch of frigidity. His military training did him well enough for a tolerance of freezing temperatures. He showers quickly of course, because the bathroom is a vulnerable, accessible location- and reviews his plans once he's done slipping into a bathrobe. He's always been eager for the chase. A rush of adrenaline and confidence and complete assurance in his capabilities. He had never found anything like that- and the feeling only returns in the field. It sets his heart thumping and its _enjoyable_. It's a bit of fun- dodging whizzing bullets and defeating foes with tactical blows and overwhelming prowess. The field is not terrifying. Many trainees seem scared of it. He never understood why; for if you memorized the procedure and used your skill, the field was a location. Only a location. 

But Karasuma despises masks and detests lies, so he can't ignore the tension in his shoulders before he finally passes out. 

-

She's looking over Dior's newest gown when she feels her neck prickle. There's someone behind her, and their gait is everchanging- the rhythm switching beats regularly.

Trained.

Male.

Adult.

That's what she gleans from his footsteps and it's _happening_. The bounty is real.

Fear. 

It almost makes it hard to trace the sounds, to triangulate the person's possible path. But Irina does it anyways. She stays in her spot, however, fingering the silk with feigned interest. 

Closer.

_Closer now. _

And then she's gripping her keys tighter because someone's coming for her-

A hand holds her makeshift weapons down- the man behind her resting an arm on her head. It's heavy, and the grip on her keys are tight. She can't move her hand. Panic starts to bubble- the paranoia of her past few days twisting and pulsing and pounding. She might die. She doesn't want to die, doesn't want to die, doesn't want to _die_\- 

And the man lowers his head. 

Hot.

His breath is hot near her ear, and the cologne is fresh and the hands are calloused and she realizes. With a practiced accent, he speaks- Serbian flowing from his mouth.

"сестра."

Sister.

Irina almost rams her head into Grip's chest. She rams her heel into his foot for good measure. The man lets out an airy "oof."

"Thanks," he says sarcastically, bending down to gently wipe the dirt of his Italian leather shoes. She just glares witheringly. To hell with his shoes; to hell with him- such a brutish man- too. 

So she _doesn't_ hug him right after behind a dress rack, and he _doesn't_ chuckle in that special way that she remembers from childhood.

Hmph. She's missed him.

Her paranoia calms down just a little. 

-

He meets Smog at a little café down the Champs-Elyées. The assassin slides into the chair which a _screech_ and Tadaomi makes an effort not to grit his teeth. Twirling a gas canister between his fingers casually, Smog smiles.

"So man," he sighs with ingenuine content, "how are you?" Soon his feet are rested on the table; Karasuma's coffee swishing uncomfortably. 

"Fine." Diplomacy. Karasuma keeps his face blank. 

"Did you enjoy your time in _Pariees_?" Smog uses a fake accent- stretching out the "e" with a mocking smile. 

"It was nice. Thank you." Tadaomi doesn't know whether to straighten his tie or loosen it. 

"My my- such blunt answers," the assassin laughs, "you haven't seen the tower yet-"

"No."

"Hm. You haven't seen patience either." The tone gets a little more clipped now, and Smog rocks his foot. The coffee spills onto the table. Karasuma can see the steam rise off it- white billowing tendrils rising until they evaporate without a trace. 

"Cut the-"

"Mm- feisty. I can see why she likes you." Karasuma stiffens imperceptibly.

Smog grins. He tosses the canister high, catching it _just right_. The nozzle points threateningly at the Japanese agent. 

"Do stay away from her, hm?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter focused more on Irina's life separate from Karasuma- since she's left a lot behind. I also thought she'd have a more sibling-like relationship with Smog, Red-Eye and Grip. Thank you for reading! Please- tell me what you thought in the comments!


	5. homecoming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The finale!! This is the last chapter in this fic- and I'm so glad people have enjoyed it. Hopefully, this lives up to each and every reader’s expectations.
> 
> Enjoy! xx

"Pardon?"

Karasuma's eyes are cold, and there it is again- that flicker of adrenaline that visits only when he's faced with a target.

Smog hums- his previous demeanour of danger replaced with saccharine friendliness. It makes Tadaomi's teeth rot.

"Look- she's just a kid. She doesn't know much- and this is like a schoolgirl crush for her. Really- it's just Irina trying to gain back what she's lost. Unfortunately, you've fallen victim to her tempting ways...and well, you're not as impervious to her wiles as you think you are. She's told you about her feelings, right? At what, 23- she knows nothing about love. Pah- love. For people like us- that's just another weapon. She knows that too."

Silence.

There's a bite to his words- and Karasuma feels the acid in his stomach stir.

Smog grabs a cigarette from his pocket and continues, "Buddy- she doesn't actually care for you. And you care for her- it's pretty hysterical- so that might be a bit of rain on your parade, but be aware of that. I'm only saying this for your sake, friend."

When the agent just fixes him with a stare, Smog lights his cigarette with a sigh. He keeps up his air of casualty- though he leaves his threat hanging in the air. Don't want pretty-boy to get too comfortable.

"Want one?"

Karasuma doesn't reply, and Smog hopes he doesn't see through his ruse. The agent breathes in- unflinching with a lungful of second-hand smoke.

"This might be hard to process, I get that," says the assassin, nicotine between his teeth, "but you gotta go with it. Wouldn't want you getting heartbroken, huh," he jokes with a chortle. Though the air absorbs his laughter, the undercurrent of subterfuge is electric- tingling, tempting but also a warning.

Smog slides his legs off the table's edge, rubbing the imprints of the metal on his calves. He stands, clapping Karasuma on the shoulder with forced ease.

"Don't hurt yourself, lover boy."

-

Irina's blowing the steam off her gun when Gastro calls.

"I heard a gunshot."

She scoffs.

"Of course you did."

"Need someone to come pick that up for you?"

Irina pokes a body with the toe of her heel.

"That would be nice."

He hangs up.

Irina inhales, tucking her phone into her bag. She walks off- a slight smile on her face- heels clicking on the cobblestones and hand wrapping her coat tightly across her torso. 

The sun is warm on her skin. 

When she returns, the corpses are gone. The alley looks unperturbed.

-

He can't stay away now.

He can't.

He'd waste time and money and resources if he left.

But he finds he cares little about the Ministry's financial losses.

Smog's not close to him, by any means. But he listened because Irina seems to like him. Irina- the woman he travelled halfway across the world for. He's combed through his contacts, through records and files and airports to be where he is now- but he feels like turning back. 

He's _scared_, and that's utterly laughable. 

Hilarious.

Impossible.

To prove it to himself, he picks up his phone to dial the Ritz's front desk. He simply asks for a woman with blonde hair and blue eyes.

He doesn't say her name.

For security reasons, obviously. 

Both relief and dread touch him when the concierge says she cannot be reached.

-

Paris is a maze. 

Damn confusing city- that's for sure. He's wasting time, wasting _time _that he could use to find her. 

Hell- she's probably lounging in a cabana, pretty pink lips on a plastic straw and nails tapping against frosted glass in a rhythm he would've found annoying a month ago but would kill to hear now. And she's laughing at him- his foolishness- and smiling in that way of hers that makes his heart twist in odd, crazily enjoyable ways. 

That'd be nice. 

But the world is not nice, and he's about to recalculate her location before he sees drops of blood on grey cobblestone. 

And then he's running faster. 

He comes across her in record time, despite her hasty attempt to smudge the trail from whatever wound she's sustained. Worry tangles itself up in his gut- but there isn't room for frantic breaths or panicked words. 

He's a professional.

So when he finds her figure stumbling through some dingy hole-in-the-wall café, he doesn't freak out. 

She's half-unconscious, blood seeping through her fingers and congealing under her nails. 

Shot.

She's shot.

There's crackle of electricity and soon's he's moving- pressing her palm closing to torn flesh, ignoring the pained cry that leaves her. He ignores it, ignores it, ignores it- arms sweeping her off her feet without heeding the protests of the staff behind him. He can hear the whizzing of the bullets- the rustle of his military uniform once more, and though the streets are deathly silent, war rages in his ears. 

It's nothing, he tells himself. But he's trained, and he can't brush off how warm liquid trails down his arms and wishes that the hospital was closer. 

-

Irina doesn’t open her eyes immediately when she comes to.

She’s in a hospital. She’s incapacitated. The room is white and smells of warm linen and isopropyl alcohol. Jelavíc can taste copper on her tongue. 

She reaches for the gun strapped to her thigh- already trying to count bullets. But it’s not there.

Her gun isn’t there. She can’t feel the cool metal against her skin. The edges of the barrel don’t dig into her. There’s no knife hidden in the folds of her blazer.

She’s not _wearing_ her blazer. 

There’s nothing on her except a hospital dress. 

She flickers her eyes open- breathing shallower than it should be. Her mind is hazy- tendrils of light swirling in her vision. Her memory is spotty, and her body feels lethargic and hyper all at once. 

She's drugged. 

Irina bolts upright- and feels a cord rip from her arm- pain biting into her with shocking ferocity. 

And then there’s a hand on her, pushing her back to the bed and she’s thrashing wildly. Kicking with no heed to the bullet wound on her torso- she’s only a second away from screaming. 

Someone’s trying to kill her-

And then he’s halfway though saying her name when the anesthesia decides to kick in. 

-

The room is much too quiet. She’s asleep- highly drugged- and lying in an almost death-like state. She’ll live. That’s what the doctors say- and he believes it. The bullet went straight through, and she’s stronger than some sharp lead rock. 

He knows that.

Though he still worries. 

In spite of Irina’s state of unconsciousness, their space is tense. It’ll be even tenser when she opens her eyes. There are so many mistakes he’s made- kicking her out of his life, bringing her straight back into it without her consent- it’s hell in a damn bottle. He yearns to see her eyes- blue and bright. Irina was rococo and obfuscating-

But her eyes were always clear. 

Karasuma barely restrains a growl when he realizes he should've understood her sooner. Living with him -already a challenge without him leading her on then pushing her out- must have been some sort of war zone. She's endured more than he gave her credit for. Residing in the slums during times of national turmoil, wielding a gun at twelve; she's the most vulnerable person he knows. 

She has nightmares bi-monthly, at best. Sometimes they are quiet- undetectable under sheets and darkness' courteous cover. However, sometimes, they are loud. He can hear the duvets rustling; her cries; the gasps and sobs and the pain. It's too much and too little emotions entirely for her to bear. And he doesn't do anything. There are no sweet-nothings whispered at midnight, even though that's what she fantasizes about. He doesn't enter unannounced the way she would if he was hurt- simply standing outside her door with his forehead pressed against the wood. There's chamomile tea with a spoonful of manuka honey left on her side of the kitchen table, and that's all.

He just hoped she saw his shadow and remembered that he didn't like chamomile at all. 

In spite of the whimpers she tries to hide; the scars she covers daily; the training she struggles with- she's one of the most stubborn, hard-headed, determined and _admirable_ people he knows. 

He hasn't told her that. He hasn't told her much at all- and that's the second-worst thing he's ever done to her. 

The first? Letting her leave. 

-

When her consciousness first returns, he's asleep. 

The world is blurry and her throat is parched-

But he's there. 

Arms crossed underneath his head, he's more peaceful than she's ever seen him. She regrets that. She regrets leaving. 

Turning to face the window, she lets out a breath quietly. Her anger has dissipated- and as soon as she landed her emotions had mellowed out into a soft longing. It’s still there- but she’s more hesitant to act on it- and it takes her a second longer to place her hand on Tadaomi’s.  
  
She notices more than he thinks she does. She notices the way he guards her door at night- protective and almost willing her into safety and some weird state of calm after her nightmares. She remembers every cup of tea and every new jar of honey. Though he throws the receipts away, she knows he’s the reason why she hasn’t run out of perfume. It doesn’t slip her mind at all. Even though a part of him hopes she does, she never forgets his moments of tenderness.

Their freezer is constantly stocked with lemon-lavender ice cream. The fridge never lacks chai tea. But those are all materialistic; small things that may be coincidence.   
  
Still, Irina has her reservations. She’s seen the Disneyland tickets on his desk, booked exactly on her birthday, and the Dior saleswoman never fails to mention “the handsome gentleman that passed through here yesterday.” 

He has never verbally hinted at affection- and though Irina waits daily for those three words, she’s ninety-nine percent sure they’re just on the tip of his tongue. 

Just like everything else is.

Karasuma is a man of action; not words. Irina lets shame cloud her mind for an instant- she's pressured him more than necessary. 

No matter. 

He's missed her- and she rejoices at that. He wouldn't have come otherwise. She can live with his silence for a while longer. As if to prove it to herself, she leans down, disregarding her injuries. She leaves a kiss on his cheek. It's tender, and it's more intimate than any contact they've had before. It's not good enough for her. 

But it's a start.

She's too enraptured in her heart's resigned pounding to notice his eyes flutter. 

-

Karasuma's entering with a steaming cup of vending machine coffee when morning comes. 

Hmph. 

She could make better coffee than that damn machine. 

So when he places it down on the stool beside her bed, she reaches for it- careful not the jostle the tubes running down her forearms. 

Karasuma only gives her an arched eyebrow, and she stares him right in the eye while she sips down his beverage. The atmosphere is thick and heavy. There isn't much to do but a lot to say and soon Irina's drinking down the whole cup to occupy herself. 

Neither person says anything for a while. Time has other ideas, however, and minutes move at a snail's pace until one of them has to speak. 

When she puts the coffee down, he's running straight to apologies. 

"Sorry," he says, and Irina can tell he means it. The response is filtered -emotions wrung out- but it rings true. 

"Me too." The air still weighs on their shoulders, yet its burden is lighter somehow. 

"You didn't have to kick me out, you know," she quips. 

An airy chuckle leaves his lips, and she grins. 

They'll review the details later. Karasuma's had enough of wallowing and regret for a lifetime. 

-

An email comes, and the Ministry is planning a gala in Paris- the Ritz Carlton exactly. Originally, it was Karasuma's cover story, but Sonokawa seems to do him more favours than he deserves. 

-

The Ritz is a ballroom now- women in flowing gowns of vibrancy and men in tailored bespoke suits. Karasuma feels underdressed. 

Though he wouldn't have cared if someone asked him last year. 

But he does, and now there's a gorgeous woman on his arm and he's worried. There are things left unsaid- swept under the rug yet somehow glaringly apparent; a splash of red on a wall of white. He's back to the start again, and he doesn't know what to say. His heart's still thumping a bit from all this...love-stuff and there's a rigidity in his spine that she's sure to notice. He bets she already has. However, she's not paying attention right now. Hand resting on his bicep but eyes fixed to the quartet in front of them and lips parted slightly in a sense of belonging; he couldn't steal her attention if he tried. So he simply stands there- watching as she takes in the room, the dresses, the cocktails. She likes it here; always has. 

It's luxury in a room of judgemental people and it's fun. 

Though Tadaomi thinks there's no way such a large space could get so stuffy.

She lets go of him soon- flouncing off to mingle and chat and do whatever sophisticated women do. 

He orders whiskey- a rugged drink for a bit of liquid luck, but the waiter simply says they don't serve that. Still, there's vodka- clear and potent- and Karasuma opts to skip the olives. The waiter places two in his glass anyways, and he forces them down with a barely-hidden grimace. The vodka burns straight after- and he guesses that makes it just a bit better. 

As time dances by, the quartet begins to play a waltz, and to his delight, she's at his side again and offering him a hand. There's a bit of internal panic- but he takes it. 

"You're going to have to teach me how to dance," he jokes, and she scoffs. 

"I saw you waltz last year- you taught the kids." There's a smile pulling gently at her lips, and he returns it, though his mind is scrambling to find a coherent sentence starter. 

He hums, speaking softly, "I never said I was good at it." 

"You seem to be doing fine now."

She's always matching him- toe to toe and quip to quip. He likes-

He loves that about her. 

So he takes a deep breath, much to her confusion, and says it out loud. 

"I-"

She knows what he wants to say- she wants to hear it. But she stops him because she's too _tired_ of yearning for this. Though her body still aches from her time in the ER, her heart is torn. 

"You don't need to say it if you're not ready- I don't think that's a good idea," and she casts her eyes away, lashes masking a wistful glance. 

Karasuma feels his heart thump out of his chest- painfully slamming against his ribcage. There's a possibility that she won't believe him, though the vodka objects, and the words are out before he can bring himself to process them. 

"Who-" and he has to lift his hand from her waist to run it through his hair, "who says I'm not?" 

She laughs- waiting for his chuckle so her heart can stop climbing, stop _hoping_-

But there's no chuckle. There's only silence. He starts again.

"Irina-"

She interrupts him, spinning around with the music until she's resting steady in his arms once more. He's nervous. _He's_ nervous. He's too stiff- posture odd and uncomfortable; there's a crease between his brows. But she spares him the embarrassment, tugging him closer so he can whisper in her ear. _Don't dream_, she thinks- shoving the words down in her throat. 

He doesn't whisper anything- and for a second Irina feels like she's going to scream and cry and run all at once since it's happening again-

But then he brushes his lips lightly against hers -and they're slightly chapped and warm and perfect- in the most Karasuma-way possible and mutters it against her lips.

"I love you-"

He never gets to finish. 

She pulls him towards her. 

The world seems to fall away. 

And then it returns.

In her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's over! This is the longest chapter of the fic, and I've had a blast writing this. Thank you to everyone who read, left kudos or commented on this fic. All my love goes out to you for contributing! I wanted to add to the Karasuma and Irina collection of fics, and I hope more writers do the same. This story has gone through many changes in length, but its overall a work I thoroughly took pleasure in crafting- and I'll surely write more on this couple. 
> 
> Many thanks, 
> 
> Gael.


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